


To Claim the Sleeping Rose

by indigo_inks



Category: Original Work, Sleeping Beauty (Fairy Tale)
Genre: Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Forced Marriage, Impregnation, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mpreg, Non-Consensual Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:28:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23689222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigo_inks/pseuds/indigo_inks
Summary: To claim the Sleeping Rose's hand in marriage, the Prince must successfully impregnate him.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character, Prince/Male Sleeping Beauty
Comments: 7
Kudos: 317
Collections: Unusual_Bearings_2020





	To Claim the Sleeping Rose

Once upon a time, there lived a handsome young Prince.

The Prince, however, was not satisfied with being a mere Prince. No, _this_ Prince wished to become a King. But because he was also the youngest of thirteen sons, this wish was unlikely to be granted. He would most likely remain a Prince forever.

Faced with this disappointing future, the Prince became disillusioned and angry. He drank to excess in commoner taverns and got into violent brawls. Some mornings, he’d awaken in the stables, the streets, or a pox-ridden whore’s bed, and he couldn’t remember what he’d been doing the previous night. It was probably better the Prince didn’t remember.

During one of his many nights of excess, a wandering minstrel sang the Prince the tragic song of the Sleeping Rose. The Rose was sole heir to a great kingdom but, at the age of sixteen, had been cursed into a magical sleep. The kingdom’s subjects were likewise cursed. And the curse would last for all eternity until a man’s seed quickened the Rose’s equally slumbering womb.

Many, it was said, had attempted the feat over the course of the centuries. None had succeeded.

“He who plows his seed, will he become King?” asked the Prince eagerly.

“It is as the tales tell, Your Highness,” replied the wandering minstrel.

“In which direction lies this great kingdom?”

“The Sleeping Rose slumbers in the land where the sun rises, where the roses are as tall as trees.”

And so the Prince set forth on his journey eastward, confident that he would succeed where others had failed before him. He followed legends and tales and rumors of the slumbering kingdom, of roses as tall as trees, and on the thirteenth week of his journey, he arrived.

The Sleeping Rose’s castle was grand, as befitting a grand kingdom, but far grander still were the roses. No garden roses, these – _these_ roses bloomed on thorny branches atop trunks as thick as the oldest oak trees – and their density and number made the path to the castle nigh impassable.

The Prince was not deterred. He drew his sword and hacked and slashed and stabbed and battled his way through the roses, ignoring the sharp scratches of the thorns and the sweet scent of the roses alike as he worked. Progress was arduous, and along the way he bore witness to the skeletal remains of men less fortunate than he.

But in the end, the briar forest was no match for the Prince. He mastered it as thoroughly and decisively as he was soon to master the Sleeping Rose…

…the Sleeping Rose, who was not, as the Prince had assumed, a young maid. She was not a “she” at all. “She” was actually a _he_.

It explained why those who had come before him over the centuries had failed. What man would expect to quicken the womb of another man?!

“I am not any man,” said the Prince to the Sleeping Rose, “and I would be King. I will be the one to quicken your womb, my Rose, and claim my rightful throne upon your fertile body.”

It would be no chore, decided the Prince. The Sleeping Rose was slender and soft and pleasing. He seemed to sleep lightly, like he’d fallen on the bier to take a short nap. The unnumbered years had not touched him.

Nothing had touched him. No one had touched him. But now, the Prince would. The Prince was already rampant.

He yielded beautifully, did the Sleeping Rose, with not a cry or a whimper of protest as the Prince pushed into him the first time. His virginal body was so ill-prepared that this first penetration perhaps gave the Prince the greater share of their discomfort. “I will not go slow,” he said, tonguing the Sleeping Rose’s rosebud lips as he braced himself. “Nor will I be gentle. Neither slowness nor gentleness are necessary whilst you sleep, and the faster and harder I claim you, the sooner my seed will be planted; the sooner you will wake; the sooner we will be wed; and the sooner I will be King.”

 _That_ last thought about becoming King made the Prince hard as diamond. He burned with lust. He was unable to wait any longer. So he arched his spine, steadied his hands on the Sleeping Rose’s hips, and commenced a furious, driving pace. He pounded in and out, in and out, in and out of the Sleeping Rose, shuddering each time he hilted and his tip brushed the guarded entrance to the Sleeping Rose’s womb. The Sleeping Rose’s cock began to rise reluctantly between them, and the Prince took it to hand, stroking as he thrust. Close, so close! He imagined his crown – it would gold as the sunrise and red as blood, and it would be heavy, so heavy, when placed upon his head—

The Prince began to come, long, hot pulses of seed to quicken the Sleeping Rose’s womb. “Soon,” he whispered into the Sleeping Rose’s ear as the Sleeping Rose spilled sweetly into the Prince’s hand. “Soon.”

The Sleeping Rose was a virgin no longer. Yet he did not stir. Perhaps the Prince’s seed had not taken?

No matter. The Prince would try again. When he envisioned sitting upon his throne, adored by his newly awakened, obedient subjects, he became hard again almost immediately.

In the end, it took three times before the Sleeping Rose did stir with a flicker of lashes and a softly murmured complaint. When those eyes opened, the Prince knew that, finally, he would be King.

“Say hello to your future husband and the father of your children, Rose,” he said, holding out his hand, beckoning the Sleeping Rose to rise from his bier.

The Sleeping Rose hesitated, staring at the dried droplets of blood and seed between his legs. At his own spent cock. As he took the Prince’s hand, he wept.

The Kingdom began to revive soon after, and it was just as grand as the wandering minstrel had promised the Prince those many moons ago. He and the Sleeping Rose were wed forthwith, and the firstborn child of the new King and Queen arrived shortly thereafter.

They lived happily ever after. Or perhaps one of them did.


End file.
